THE IRONCLAD SAVIOUR!
“What do you mean?”
“Local folks not taking kindly to them. And it looked like every farmer that could ride a mule headed for the city when these ships went by on the Potomac. They got a line of men stretched out and firing—with more arriving every minute.”
“Enough to stop the British?”
“I don’t believe so, sir. Those troops are regulars and there is an awful lot of them.”
“Mr. Stanton—it looks like they’re getting into the White House now!”
It certainly appeared to be the end. The defensive fire had died down and the first enemy troops were battering at the sealed front door. The troops inside were firing through the shattered windows to no avail.
Above the scattering of shots a bugle could be clearly heard. Sounding the same call over and over.
“That bugle call—what is it?” Stanton asked worriedly.
The general shook his head. “I’m afraid that I do not know, sir. It is not a call used in the United States Army.”
“I know, sir,” the corporal said. Every eye was on him. “I’m in a signals unit, we know all the British calls as well.
“That’s retreat, sir, that’s what they are sounding. Retreat.”
“But—why?” Stanton asked. “They are winning. Have our troops rallied and attacked . . .”
“Not troops!” General Rose cried out. “Look, there in the Potomac!”
In the patch of river, just visible past the verandas of the White House, a hulking dark form moved into view. Guns ready, the stars and stripes flapping from her staff.
An American armor-clad; the salvation of the city.
“Your orders, Mr. President,” the Commodore said.
Lincoln was bent over and looking out through the slit in the armor that covered the bridge. It was hot, close in here. What it would be like when the guns fired and shells struck outside he did not even want to imagine. There was a good chance that he might find out in the coming minutes.
“What do you suggest, Commodore?”
“Wood, sir. All wood and no iron on any of the warships. You saw what happens when wood fights iron.”
“I did indeed. Can you call upon them to surrender?”
“I could, but I doubt that it would be appreciated. Those ships came here to fight and fight they will. See, they are already swinging about to get their guns to bear.”
“The ships with the troops—you will spare them?”
“Of course—unless they refuse to surrender and try to escape. But I think they will be reasonable after they see what happens to the others.”
Smoke rolled out from the Prince Regent’s guns and there was a mighty clang of metal upon metal that sounded through the ship.
“Return fire,” Goldsborough ordered.
The Battle of the Potomac River had begun.
The British had their defensive tactics forced upon them: they were compelled to keep their warships between this armored enemy and the unarmed transports tied up along the shore. The retreating troops were being boarded as fast as they could, but it would still take some time. Time that would have to be bought with men’s lives.
They sailed in line against the single enemy, crossing the T just as Nelson had done at Trafalgar. This would concentrate the gunfire of each ship in turn against a single target. But success at the Battle of Trafalgar had seen wooden ships fighting wooden ships. Now it was wood against iron.
Prince Regent was first in line. As she passed the ironclad gun after gun fired at close range. The solid shot just bounced off the armor plate; the explosive shells could not penetrate. There was no return fire until the rear turret of Avenger was even with the waist of the British ship. The two guns fired and the massive iron shells from the 400-pounders crashed through the oak hull and on into the crowded gun deck.
Royal Oak was next and she took the fire of the other turret and suffered the same fate as her sister ship. Guns unmounted, men screaming and dying, tangled rigging and sails down.
It took two minutes to reload the big guns. Every minute one of the turrets fired and death crashed into the British squadron. The ships fought and died, one by one, a small victory bought at a terrible price. But the first transports had slipped their lines and were heading downriver.
Men ran along the bank, cheering and shouting, letting off the occasional shot against the retreating ships. A British warship had her rudder blown away and drifted helplessly in the current; the watchers cheered even louder.
Guns were still firing upstream from the drifting ship as it slowly drifted out of sight. Smaller guns firing at erratic intervals. And every two minutes the louder boom of the 400-pounders.
“We are winning, Mr. Lincoln,” Goldsborough said. “No doubt about that.”
“Has this ship suffered any damage?”
“None, sir—other than our flagstaff being shot away. They got Old Glory and they will pay a terrible price for that.”
THE TASTE OF VICTORY
The Battle of Saratoga was in its third bloody day. The troops that had been trickling into the American positions had been thrown piecemeal into the line as soon as they arrived. And they held, just barely, but they held. The fighting was hand-to-hand; the cannon could not fire for fear of hitting their own troops. Then, at noon, some of the spirit had seemed to go out of the British troops. They had been brave enough, had fought hard enough—but all to no avail. They hesitated. General Grant saw it and knew what he had to do.
“We counterattack. All of the freshest troops. Push them back, hurt them.”
With a roar of pleasure the American troops attacked for the first time. And the British fled.
Badly hurt in their frontal attack the enemy were now changing their tactics. A few cannon fired at the Americans as a grim reminder that they were still there. But other events were in progress.
The weary and dusty officer approached and saluted General Grant.
“Scouts report plenty of movement on the left flank, General. Some cavalry, maybe even some guns. Looks like they are trying to flank us, attack from our rear.”
“Well that’s what I would do in their position. I just wonder what took them so long to think about it.” He turned to his staff officers. “What about the food and water?”
“When the last reinforcements arrived we pushed them into the line and pulled some of our veterans out. Had them eat, then bring the grub back to the other men. Worked fine— and we have plenty of ammunition to boot.”
“I certainly hope so. The enemy is not going to give up easily.”
“I passed an officer back there, General. Cavalryman. Wants to find you.”
“Cavalry you say! I want to talk to him as well.”
The mounted officer was just swinging to the ground when Grant came up—and stopped dead in his tracks. He had read the telegraphed reports about the second British invasion and the fighting in Mississippi, but the overall reality of the situation had not penetrated to him in the heat of deadly battle. Now he saw before him the gray coat and golden sash of a Confederate officer. The tall, richly-bearded man turned to face him and his face lit up with recognition.
“Ulysses S. Grant, as I live and breathe!”
“You are a welcome sight, Jeb, most welcome indeed.”
They shook hands and laughed with pleasure. The last time they had met had been at West Point. Since then they had gone different ways. Grant was a general of the Union Army. J.E.B. Stuart was the greatest cavalry officer that the Confederacy possessed.
“We rode the cars as far north as we could, then cut across country. Some of the farmers took some pot-shots at us, didn’t hit anything though. I suppose they thought we were British. I heard what Cump did for us in Biloxi. I figured that I could return the favor for an old friend.”
“A favor greatly appreciated. My scouts report enemy action on our left flank.”
“Now do they, rightly enough. My boys are watering the horses and restin
g them a bit. As soon as that is done I think we’ll sort of mosey around there and see what we can find. Have you seen any of these yet?”
He pulled a carbine from the long holster slung from his saddle and held it up.
“While we were passing through the Philadelphia junction this supply officer sought us out. Said he was shipping these arms to the troops and since we were the nearest bunch we got first look in. That was mighty friendly of the man and we do appreciate it. This is a Spencer rifle that loads from the breech and is a wonder to behold. Look at this.” Stuart pulled a metal tube from the wooden butt of the gun and held it up.
“There are twenty bullets in here, all metal with percussion caps on the end. They can be fired one after another, just as fast as you can work the cocking lever and pull the trigger. The brass just jumps out and the next bullet goes into battery. Let a shot off then do the same thing again. I am shore glad that we got them now. I don’t think I would have enjoyed it a time back if we had to ride into the muzzles of these things.”
Grant turned the gun over and over with admiration, handed it back. “I heard that they were going into production, never saw one before though. Could have used a few thousand of them right here.”
“A perfect cavalry weapon. My boys just a-thirsting to try them out.”
“Good luck.”
Stuart galloped away to join his troops while Grant turned back to the grim business of defending their positions. And killing the British.
Private Poole of the 16th Bedford and Hertfordshire was not a happy man. For two years his regiment had been stationed in Quebec, in Canada, in that wildest of wild countries. Frying in summer, freezing his arse in winter. Then this war. First the long march to the landings, then the boats down the lakes. Easy enough that, but the last march south in the heat was something else again. A pleasure after that to rest a bit before getting stuck in to kill Yankees. Run right over the first lot they did and it wasn’t much more work to take out the second bunch. But the easy victories were over now. The fighting had been fierce and the British losses heavy. More than one of his butties dead now. To make matters worse in the last engagement his musket had exploded, seared the side of his head it had. That was a wound for the doctor, for sure. Sergeant didn’t see it that way. Told him to rub some grease on it and get back into the line. Gave him a musket from a dead man. Useless thing, Brown Bess, the same gun that had licked Napoleon. But that was a long time ago and he missed his rifled Enfield musket.
“Column halt. Fix bayonets. Left face.”
The sergeant walked behind them, checking their packs and weapons with his tiny, cold eyes.
“We are going to attack,” he said. “We are going to stay in line and advance together and I’ll have the skin off the back of any man who falls behind.”
He probably would too, Poole thought gloomily, and rued the day he had listened to the recruiting sergeant when he came round the Horse and Hounds. Buying drinks for all. Telling them about the wonderful life in the army. The Queen’s shilling and a new life in “The Old Ducks” he had told them, that was what the regiment was affectionately called. Not much affection now.
THE LIGHTNING STRIKE OF SOUTHERN CAVALRY
“Forward—”
At the same instant the command was spoken the soldiers became aware of the sound of galloping hooves from the scraggly forest of trees that lined the road. Louder and louder.
And then came the screams. A demented, high-pitched warbling cry that raised the hackles on their necks. There were shouted orders and they were just turning to face the enemy when the cavalrymen were upon them.
Gray-coated cavalry that shouted, screamed as they attacked. Firing as they came, firing over and over. Bursting through the British infantrymen, turning to attack again. And still firing. Not appearing to reload at all but pouring out a continuous withering fire that tore through their ranks.
It was brutal slaughter. The British lines just melted away before the rolling, ceaseless hail of bullets. Some of the infantrymen fired back, but very few. The horsemen stayed where they were, still shooting. They did not seem to stop, just kept blasting a blizzard of bullets into the men before them.
When they rode back through the British lines a second time there was nothing for them to fire at. Cavalry sabers slashed down at any movement among the fallen soldiers. As they cantered away into the cover of the woods they left only silence behind them.
Private Poole lay on his unfired Tower musket, a bullet through his arm. He waited long minutes until he was sure that the cavalry had gone, then pushed the dead weight of the sergeant off his back. Climbed unsteadily to his feet and looked horrifiedly about him at the destruction. Stumbled back down the road to escape it.
The sole survivor.
On the other side of the Atlantic an unseasonal summer storm was rolling across England. Streams swelled and burst their banks as rain lashed the countryside. Lightning flared behind the crenelated towers of Windsor Castle; thunder rumbled. The two men who emerged reluctantly from the carriage hesitated for a moment—then hurried over to the shelter of the doorway where they waited. Liveried servants helped Lord Palmerston to the ground and half carried him to the entrance to join the others. His gout had improved slightly, but walking was still painful.
Doors opened before them as they progressed through the castle, to the final chamber where they were all to meet.
The Duke of Cambridge, newly returned from America and resplendent in the full dress uniform of the Horseguards, turned as they entered.
“Capital—just the fellers I wanted to see. Come in, dry yourselves, have some of this sack,” he waved his glass at the sideboard. “Just the thing in this poxy weather.”
By no word or deed did he refer to the disastrous failure of the American Gulf Coast invasion. And none dared query him. He had remained in seclusion while the American newspapers crowed about the wonderful victory. When he emerged and once more assumed command of the armies there was no one so bold as to mention anything about the matter. It was part of the past; he looked forward to a brilliant future.
There were murmurs of greeting, most polite since the Duke was not only the Queen’s cousin as well as being Commander-in-Chief of all the British armies. They looked with interest at the lean officer who stood beside him, almost skeletal in comparison to the Duke’s portly figure. Instead of a stock or cravat they could see that the man’s neck and throat was covered with bandages and he held his head at a stiff angle. The Duke nodded in his direction.
“You may know Colonel Dupuy of the 56th West Essex? Home on a spot of sick leave, font of information on the colonials. Speaks well of their weapons and he appears to be most contemptuous of ours. Wants to spend money, a good deal of money I dare say. There Colonel, that chappy there is the one you want to speak to. Name of Gladstone, Chancellor of the Exchequer.”
“My pleasure, Colonel. I hope you are recuperating well.”
“Fine, thank you, sir.” His voice was a hoarse whisper.
“And what is it that you want to spend our nation’s gold on?”
“Guns, sir,” Dupuy said. “Modern rifles, breech-loaders at that.” He touched his throat. “Of the kind that did this. At a range of hundreds of yards.”
“You, sir,” Palmerston rumbled angrily, “you feel that your country has been amiss in supplying its military?”
“No, your Lordship, I did not intend that. I meant that the military, myself included, has accepted the status quo and not thought enough about modernization. Do you realize that some of my men actually use Tower muskets?”
“Brown Bess won wars,” the Duke said.
“Won, sir, in the past, sir. Fifty, a hundred years ago. One of my officers was so contemptuous of the weapon that he went so far as to say, humorously of course, that he preferred the good English longbow. Far better and more accurate than a musket. Four times the rate of fire. Does not discharge smoke that gives away a soldier’s position.”
“Quite a wi
t,” Palmerston said, angered at the levity. “Are your officers always this impertinent?”
“Rarely. This one won’t repeat his impertinence. He fell at the Battle of Plattsburgh.”
“You mention only weapons,” Lord Russell said. “Do you also take fault with our morale, our organization, our abilities to fight?”
“Don’t misunderstand me, your Lordship. I am a professional soldier in the most professional army in the world— and proud of it. But put simply, bullets win battles. If an enemy fires ten bullets at me in the time it takes me to fire one—he is then as good as ten soldiers. Which means that there are no longer level terms in combat. A hundred against a hundred means my hundred against their thousand. That is an engagement that cannot be won.”
“Training is what counts,” the Duke said. “That and morale. We have the morale and the training and the resolution to fight and win in every part of the world. This Empire was not built by men of little resolve. We have not lost in the past and we shall always win in the future. This minor setback will be overcome. The enemy will be trounced and we shall be victorious. We lose battles—but we do not lose wars. A temporary setback can lead to a future victory. If the enemy were to plead for peace we might grant it. But only so that we could return in even greater force later. In the end we will triumph.”
He stared around angrily waiting for someone to contradict him.
In the silence that followed they welcomed the announcement that Her Majesty had arrived. They turned and bowed her presence to her chair. Queen Victoria was garbed all in black; black gloves and tiny black veil, she mourned and would forever mourn her lost Albert. Since his death she had become more and more unstrung. Her face was puffy and blotchy and she had put on more weight. Members of the court worried about her sanity. She nodded at the Duke of Cambridge.
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